


Wish I Had An Angel

by Sparrow (hersilentlanguage)



Category: Descendants (Disney Movies), The Isle of the Lost Series - Melissa de la Cruz
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, BAMF Jay (Disney), Gen, based on @inertiazz's Urban Fantasy AU, detailed CW inside, djinn!Jay, jay needs a hug, jay-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23765476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hersilentlanguage/pseuds/Sparrow
Summary: A Djinn!Jay oneshot based on the Urban Fantasy AU plotted out by@inertiazz(Tumblr).“DJINN,” a voice called, booming through the darkness.Jay flinched back against the cold, hard wall of the lamp, eyes wide and burning in his skull as he looked up into the light that’d appeared above him: white light to mark his exit from the lamp—maybe one day, the door he would escape by—He grit his teeth as the voice called again, with more insistence: “HEED ME, DJINN. YOUR MASTER HAS SUMMONED.”“Fine,” Jay answered tensely, manifesting through a plume of black smoke that left his father coughing. “Where isshe?”Jay asked, his arms crossed tight, face carefully disinterested.
Relationships: Jafar & Jay (Disney)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57





	Wish I Had An Angel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [@inertiazz](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%40inertiazz).



> This oneshot was inspired by [@inertiazz](http://inertiazz.tumblr.com)'s (formerly @eahateblog) [fantastic Urban Fantasy AU](http://eahateblog.tumblr.com/post/615765304071553025/eahateblog-i-wanna-talk-about-the-urban-fantasy).
> 
> Here's an excerpt from the AU summary that is basically the precise part which haunted me into writing this entire thing: _"being in the lamp is a nightmare. it’s lonely, it’s small, there’s no way to tell the time, no way to entertain himself for the seemingly infinite stretches of time in between behind called out."_
> 
> Thank you very much to @inertiazz for giving the okay for me to post this! The plot here is HEAVILY inspired by what I've read about the AU, so even though I may have taken small narrative liberties, I'm still gonna emphasize this plot _isn't_ mine; this is just a tribute to and my personal take on something that gave me hella feels. <3
> 
>  **NOTE:** If you're easily squicked, I suggest you don't look up any information on the cocktail I've named in the last sentence of this fic. It's what it sounds like and that's all I'm going to say about it. You've been warned.
> 
> **Please read the end notes for detailed trigger warnings (if you're okay with spoilers).**

The darkness around him stretched out in measures of time, not distance. Here, in the lamp, where he could not even tell _himself_ apart from shadow, Jay mostly slept for what seemed like days, if not weeks, in a cradle of dreams he’d stitched together from memories, both real and imagined.

But then, sometimes, if he couldn’t sleep, he’d wonder...

 _How long had it been since it’d happened? A month, a minute_ — _did it even matter?_ He knew, logically, that time still flowed, and the world was aging. He knew that he was not truly, as he felt, in a stagnant pool of time, where words like “month” and “minute” lost distinction from each other, and yet—

He only knew that because, now and then, he’d count the seconds out like sheep. _One, two, three, four—_ then again, but in Spanish _—uno, dos, tres, quatro—screw it..._

He couldn’t bring himself to act like he was just some child beneath a bedsheet, waiting anxiously for the sun to rise and assure him that, _yes, he was safe—all his fears were imagined—_

No, Jay knew too well the _reality_ of this nightmare: that he was merely a tool some ancient god had cursed with sentience, and all he _really_ had to anticipate was that, eventually, at the whim of his master, he’d be summoned out from the lonely dark.

 _But when—and for how long?_ That, he never knew.

He wanted to sigh at the thought, so he began to conceive of lungs to force the air out from, then focused on trying—a little desperately, if he was honest—to feel the slightest tickle of breath against the memory of lips.

He managed it enough that he could _almost_ convince himself it had carried a sound, as well, so he tried to smile next— _but that was harder._

* * *

“DJINN,” a voice called, booming through the darkness.

Jay flinched back against the cold, hard wall of the lamp, eyes wide and burning in his skull as he looked up into the light that’d appeared above him: white light to mark his exit from the lamp— _maybe one day, the door he would escape by—_

He grit his teeth as the voice called again, with more insistence: “HEED ME, DJINN. YOUR MASTER HAS SUMMONED.”

“Fine,” Jay answered tensely, manifesting through a plume of black smoke that left his father coughing. “Where is _she?”_ Jay asked, his arms crossed tight, face carefully disinterested.

Jafar was spiteful, and took his time in answering. It was at least a minute before he’d brushed off every last imagined speck of ash—another several seconds to adjust his socks, which were filthy from being worn with a pair of sandals.

“She’ll be here,” he said at last, just vague enough to irritate.

Jay’s eyes narrowed as he watched his father turn sharply away, going to pour out a cup of something that might well have been bottled cat piss, from the smell of it. “What do _you_ want, then… father?” He felt a twinge of satisfaction for the way Jafar glanced back at him, clearly vexed by that term of address.

Jay only used it because his father _wished_ he wouldn’t—

He’d learned that one night, when the tail-end of an argument between Jafar and Maleficent had trickled down into the dark confines of his lamp: _“—but you ask that as if you’ve forgotten yourself, and who you were before my pity! He may be your son, Jafar, but he is my djinn, and I am master to you BOTH, do you understand?”_

Jafar stood stiffly, eyes hollow, like he’d just shared in that same memory; then, with a dark glance to his son, he tipped the cup back in a sloppy thrust, seemingly careless of the fact that more than half of it ran down the front of his shirt rather than his throat.

“Get me another drink,” he muttered, glaring down into his empty glass. When it didn’t immediately fill, he sneered at Jay. “BOY! I SAID ANOTHER.”

“I heard you.” Jay wore a strange smile, though his eyes were downcast; his gaze was trained on the smouldering pattern he was toeing into one of his father’s expensive floor rugs.

(True, the damage wouldn’t last—could be wished away, so easily—but still… _still,_ there was that little thrill of knowing that even _magic_ could not erase the time itself, could not undo that this destruction had _happened_ , and would have to be _remembered.)_

When Jay finally raised his eyes to challenge his father’s silence, he was not surprised to see that the man’s face was etched with prideful resentment. Nonetheless, Jafar ground out through his teeth, like it physically pained him, “I _wish_ for another drink…”

(He then wiped his sleeve over his mouth like a furious toddler.)

“As you wish,” said Jay, with that same strange smile as before. He snapped his fingers, and the glass was full again—though, if Jafar hadn’t been so quick to tip it back, he _might_ have noticed that the glass no longer smelled like cat piss. It smelled like rot.

“UGH!” The glass hit the floor not a second later.

Jafar stumbled back on legs as shaky as a newborn giraffe’s. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. Instead, he spat at the shards, and pointed accusingly at Jay with one hand—using the other to grip his stomach against a swell of nausea and bubbling discomfort.

Jay shrugged. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Another drink?”

Again, Jafar tried to speak—this time, managing a choked noise and, in quick succession, a few ominous hiccups. He clamped a hand over his mouth, eyes wild and wandering in search of something that he could only express as a desperate, muffled cry.

(Jay chose to interpret that as a question he was happy to answer.)

“Sure, I can get you another round,” he said cheerfully, folding his arms behind his head in a way that obscured his shackled wrists. “Just make sure you wish, _specifically,_ for a Sourtoe Cocktail.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! And thanks again to @inertiazz for agreeing to let me borrow his plot. <3
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated! Find me on Tumblr for more Descendants content: [@hersilentlanguage](http://hersilentlanguage.tumblr.com)
> 
>  **CW:** Opening scene that may bother readers with claustrophobia and/or nyctophobia; experience of disassociation/unreality; heavy themes of parental abuse (not without vengeance on Jay's part); alcohol mention (no underage drinking); non-graphic implications of near-vomiting; and finally, a reminder that easily squicked readers should not search for images or details of a "sourtoe cocktail."


End file.
